


Room for a Wedding

by Kyele



Series: The Roommates Fics [3]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Porn Star AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24700129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: “A little market research never hurt anyone,” Harry says, slipping his phone back into his pocket with a satisfied air. “But no, I’m afraid I’m merely required to travel on private business, and I intend to abuse my position as head of this studio in terribly deplorable ways by whisking our star away to provide me with companionship and sexual satisfaction for the duration. Unless you object?” This last is to Eggsy, and despite Harry’s dictatorial phrasing, Eggsy understands perfectly that this is a genuine request and he is free to say no if he’d really rather not.As it happens, Eggsy is peeling out of the fursuit as fast as he can. “I’m already packed, bruv.”Harry tempts Eggsy to visit to a beautiful estate in Shropshire, the property of the Earl of Matlock, who rents it out as a wedding venue.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Series: The Roommates Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1394851
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Room for a Wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elrhiarhodan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/gifts).



> For elrhiarhodan, whose birthday was some time ago, but who will, I hope, love this just the same :)

“Yeek,” says Eggsy.

“Cut!” Roxy yells. There’s a series of clicks, clacks, and other assorted noises as the cameras are paused, the mics raised back to the rest position, and the lights dimmed slightly. Eggsy, wrapped in a brown nylon leotard festooned with golden fake fur, is devoutly grateful for this. Roxy, on the other hand, knows no gratitude during the shooting of a film, and is now looking at Eggsy with murder in her eyes. “Your character has three lines, Unwin. Three. Lines. How is it that you can’t keep them straight?”

“They ain’t in English,” Eggsy protests. “How’m I supposed to know the difference?”

“They have meanings!” Roxy brandishes a sheet of paper, which is labelled _Fuzzy Dictionary_. “You didn’t have this problem on _Not-So-Little Fuzzy_!”

“In _Not-So-Little Fuzzy_ all I ever said was _yeek_!” Well, that and moaning; it had been porn, after all. As is this; but unlike _Not-So-Little Fuzzy_ , which had been a thinly veiled excuse for furry porn shot under the auspices of the late and unlamented Chester King, its sequel _The Other Human Dong_ is a production of the modern Statesman, Ltd.. Which is led by wealthy toff Harold Reginald Hard III, who also happens to be legendary not-so-retired 80s porn star Harry Hard-On, the studio’s production and profit have exploded, thanks to a new focus on, of all things, plot, characterization, and something that Roxy calls, without any seeming hint of irony, ‘the feels’. Which apparently means that Eggsy’s character now has an entire language to memorize before he can fuck on set.

“I’m hiring you a language coach,” Roxy mutters.

Four years ago Eggsy would have collapsed into hysterical laughter at the mere thought. He’s a porn star, not an actor. No one hires language coaches for porn.

“How’s it going?” a new voice asks.

No one except Harold Reginald Hard III, seventeenth Earl of Matlock, hires language coaches for porn.

“We’re two hours ahead of schedule, projecting at least a thou under budget, and the early returns are great,” Roxy says. Eggsy gapes at her. Roxy has spent the last three days shouting at every little delay, chivvying the lighting techs about not wanting to turn the floods off for any break of less than half an hour (because they take a fucking aeon to get back to true color after a power cycle, but go off), and telling Eggsy that his moans sound the way a bored ten-year-old would react to the thought of doing homework. Now he finds out that that was all an _act_?

“Damn, Rox, you should be the lead,” he breathes.

Her nose wrinkles when she frowns. “Too much dick,” Roxy says dismissively.

This is a fair point. It’s difficult to work porn if you’re not at least tolerantly bisexual. But language skills were _not_ part of the skill set listed on the flyer that young Gary Unwin had followed to his current career. He appeals to his boss-cum-lover – pun _very much intended_ – with puppy eyes and a trembling lip. “This whole language thing – ”

“Adds verisimilitude and depth,” Harry says briskly. “I’m so glad you understand, my dear.”

Eggsy drops the puppy-dog gaze in favor of a look that contains so much pure, distilled murder that even Roxy is forced to blink twice in grudging respect. “I’m having trouble with it.”

“Do you need a language coach?” Harry glances at Roxy. “Have you thought about hiring a language coach?”

“An excellent idea, Mr. Hart,” Roxy says. Butter probably _would_ melt in her mouth, Eggsy thinks mutinously, but only because the floods are still on and generating heat that would put the Sahara to shame. “In fact, sir, if we’re going to invest in a language coach, I think we might consider expanding the scope a little – ”

“Oh _no_ ,” Eggsy says in horror.

“ – and filming several episodes back-to-back.”

“It’s July!” Eggsy wails. The fur of his suit bristles in sympathetic dismay.

“With an overarching plot?” Harry looks extremely intrigued. “And would you by any chance, Ms. Morton, happen to have a treatment prepared for these hypothetical several episodes?”

“I’ve jotted down a few notes,” Roxy says unblushingly, whipping out an inch-thick stack of paper. Eggsy’s jaw drops.

“This is a fucking ambush,” he says weakly.

“Got to stay on your toes in this business,” Roxy says.

Harry is leafing through the treatment. “‘Fuzzy Boners,’” he reads the title of episode three aloud. Flipping ahead to episode four - “‘Golden Dreams’. Well, well, Ms. Morton. This is excellent.”

“That last one had better not be watersports,” Eggsy says, knowing perfectly well that it is, in fact, watersports.

“It’s watersports,” Roxy says unpityingly.

Eggsy sighs. At least it’ll cool him down, he supposes.

“I’ll tell you what, Ms. Morton,” Harry says. “Take a week. No, take two. Turn this into a full-fledged script. I’ll review and if, as I expect, the result is approved, we’ll put it into pre-production for an August 1 shooting start.”

“Thank you, sir!” Roxy’s grin briefly puts the floods to shame, before she wrestles her expression back to the same serene calmness that her mentor Merlin exudes as easily as breathing. It’s the mark of a good producer, Merlin frequently insists at great length and no inconsiderable volume. Eggsy has seen Merlin mad exactly three times in his Statesman career. It’s terrifying. He has yet to see Roxy mad, but he’s already in for five quid on the pool that says it will dwarf even Merlin’s legendary outburst on the set of _Deepthroat State_.

Then Roxy says, “What about our current shoot?”

Harry waves a hand. “Put what you have in the can, but hold on further progress until you’ve refined the treatment. Whatever you haven’t filmed yet, revise to bring in line with the rest of the series. It has to flow. Besides.” He turns his sexy fucking competent grin on Eggsy, and Eggsy’s arousal suddenly transitions from “professional porn star” to “hel _lo nurse_ ”. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to make off with your star.”

“Break!” Roxy calls.

Harry holds up a hand. “For two weeks.”

There’s a general sort of freeze as everyone’s ears perk up and heads swivel to focus on Eggsy. They’re porn workers, so despite Eggsy’s obvious male-ness (he’s wearing crotchless nylon and a cock ring, for God’s sake) everyone immediately zeroes in on his stomach. His extremely flat stomach, thank you very much. His very well-defined stomach, for which he works out religiously. His very much not bulging stomach.

“I’m not pregnant,” Eggsy says, just to be safe.

Titters break out around the room, swiftly silenced. 

“Perhaps next month, darling,” Harry deadpans. He cocks his head to the side. “You know, now that I think about it – ”

“Now hang on a second,” Eggsy says hastily.

Harry has already pulled out his phone and is tapping out an email. “Your usual demographic does have a known subculture – ”

“Oi!”

“A little market research never hurt anyone,” Harry says, slipping his phone back into his pocket with a satisfied air. “But no, I’m afraid I’m merely required to travel on private business, and I intend to abuse my position as head of this studio in terribly deplorable ways by whisking our star away to provide me with companionship and sexual satisfaction for the duration. Unless you object?” This last is to Eggsy, and despite Harry’s dictatorial phrasing, Eggsy understands perfectly that this is a genuine request and he is free to say no if he’d really rather not.

As it happens, Eggsy is peeling out of the fursuit as fast as he can. “I’m already packed, bruv.”

* * *

“So I realize it’s kind of late days to be asking,” Eggsy says from the passenger seat of Harry’s car, “but where are we going?”

“Shropshire,” Harry says. 

Eggsy frowns. “ _Shropshire_?”

“Is that so surprising?”

Eggsy doesn’t answer right away. After a few minutes of silence, Harry flicks a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, though he keeps both hands on the wheel and most of his attention on the road. Which shouldn’t be hot as fuck, but somehow it is. One day Eggsy will convince Harry to pull over on the side of the motorway and let Eggsy dislocate his jaw on that monster dick, public lewdness laws be damned. One day. Not today, though; Harry may look relaxed, shirtsleeves rolled up and coat discarded, but the way the cords stand out on his forearms give the lie to his deliberately insouciant portrayal of ‘man driving car for holiday with boyfriend’. 

“Little bit,” Eggsy settles for saying. “You’re all tense, and you said this was private business. I figured it was about… you know…” One day he’ll be able to say this with a straight face. But as with car sex, it’s not today. He snickers without meaning to. “The Earldom.”

“Oh, it is.”

Now Eggsy frowns. “I may not have a fancy degree like you, bruv – ” Because of _course_ Harry had graduated Cambridge by way of Eton, the ponce – “but I know where Matlock is, and it ain’t in Shropshire.”

“Ah, I see the issue,” Harry agrees. “What you may be unaware of is that noble titles tend to come with more than one estate.”

“Seriously? Ain’t one enough?”

Harry laughs. A horn blares from the lane to their left; Harry swerves casually, brake-checks, and flips two fingers at the irate driver as Harry accelerates smoothly past, showing off his car’s impressive speed in a way that makes Eggsy desperately want to desecrate its extremely expensive leather. 

Though just sitting here, the car vibrating around him, Harry looking particularly fine, ain’t a bad life neither. 

“So you have another estate in Shropshire,” Eggsy prompts him.

Harry’s shrug is a rolling thing. “Really, _estate_ is overstating the matter - if you’ll pardon the pun,” he adds, and Eggsy groans theatrically. “It’s really just a rather large house on some rather nice grounds. It looks like exactly the sort of place you think of when you think of a wedding venue - which, in fact, is what it is, most of the time. I rent it out. Tidy little income stream.”

“Cause you ain’t rich enough already,” Eggsy grumbles half-heartedly.

“Says the highest-paid actor in the business.”

“Yeah, but you’re, like, the one percent.” Eggsy slouches down in the seat, thickening his accent and batting his eyes. “C’mon, sugar daddy, buy me something.”

“You’re a traitor to your class,” Harry drawls in his poshest tones.

“And you love it.”

For a brief moment, the car bowling down the motorway at top speed with no need to leave top gear, Harry’s left hand leaves the stick and comes over to rest on Eggsy’s thigh. “I do, my dear.”

Eggsy’s heart leaps. They haven’t said it yet. Neither of them have said it. They’re porn stars, for god’s sake, they don’t do love - except that Eggsy is absolutely arse over tits for Harry, and Harry is maybe, possibly, just a little bit fond of Eggsy. Extremely possessive of Eggsy, yes; proud of Eggsy, decidedly; quite enjoys Eggsy’s company, demonstrably. Loves Eggsy?

Eggsy doesn’t think about Tequila and Ginger Ale as often as he used to. Can set foot inside Statesman studios without seeing the ghost of Tequila draped smirking over the ratty old sofa for actors to use in between takes, invariably and with irony aforethought nicknamed “the casting couch”. Can film a pegging scene without remembering Ginger Ale’s touch with a dildo. Can get on the tube heading towards Mayfair without having to remember not to turn down towards his old line home instead.

But Eggsy had thought he’d had something with them that he hadn’t. And he’s scared to death of putting himself out there to get hurt that way again.

Harry squeezes Eggsy’s thigh. Then he puts his hand back on the gear shifter and merges onto the motorway towards Shropshire.

* * *

“Whoa,” Eggsy says.

“Close your mouth, darling,” Harry says, expertly negotiating the twists and curves up the driveway as Eggsy hangs out the window like an overgrown puppy. “It’s spring, there are bugs.”

Eggsy’s mouth hadn’t actually been open, but he presses his lips closer together just to be safe. He’s had things in his mouth that would make most people heave, but somehow it’s the idea of swallowing a bug that turns his stomach. But then they round another curve, and Eggsy can’t help it. “I’ve seen this place in a fucking magazine!” It’s got _turrets_. When Harry had said this place is little, Eggsy had imagined, well, a house. He should have realized that ‘little’ is relative: there are two distinct wings to the building that Eggsy can see, and a frankly massive central area that looks like it could hold an entire soundstage.

“Was it a wedding magazine?” Harry sounds long-suffering. “Because as I mentioned – ”

“Right, right, you rent it out.” And it probably _had_ been in a wedding magazine, now that he thinks about it; Tequila had liked –

Eggsy catches the oh-shit handle just in time to avoid being jackknifed through the windshield on account of Harry’s sudden stop. He catches his breath, then asks, “What’s up?”

“Security system.” Harry is fishing in the center storage; he comes up with a remote and presses something on it, pointing it at nothing in particular. A minute later, although nothing seems to have changed, Harry puts the remote back and drives on.

“Whatcha keeping out?”

“Bootleg weddings, mostly.”

Eggsy boggles. “Bootleg…”

“…weddings,” Harry finishes. “People who don’t want to pay the rental sometimes try to sneak onto the grounds anyway. I didn’t mind when they were just getting a few pictures, but when they started smuggling officiants in, well.”

“Wow.”

“One must protect one’s investment.” Harry slides Eggsy a sly sideways look. “That extends to you, by the way.”

“What are you protecting _me_ from?” Eggsy’s imagination, traitorously, conjures up an image of an itinerant groom popping up from the brushes and attempting to make off with Eggsy for wedding purposes, only to be soundly defeated by Harry in the role of knight-as-shining-armor, who then produces an officiant and ring of his own –

“Here we are,” Harry says, interrupting Eggsy’s increasingly ridiculous musings. They’ve pulled up to the side of the house, where there’s a small car bay, and Harry kills the engine. “Don’t worry about the luggage; I want to give you the tour.”

“Are you sure?” Eggsy climbs out of the car, glancing back at the boot guiltily. “Do you have, like, a butler?”

“No,” Harry says in amusement. “But there _is_ a staff, yes. Part of the rental package – the wedding party usually stays on-site, so we give them a bit of white-glove treatment. Makes them feel special.”

“Ah.” Eggsy stands there for a moment, before Harry strides off and Eggsy, perforce follows. Sans baggage. Because the staff will bring it up.

Because, just maybe, Harry wants Eggsy to feel special?

“Come on,” Harry says, smiling at Eggsy in a way that he never smiles for anyone else. “I want to show you everything.”

* * *

They end up in the bedroom, of course. Eggsy had suspected that Harry was saving it for last, and that suspicion had become confidence when Harry had made a show of taking Eggsy through three different broom closets and more water closets than anyplace that isn’t a public museum really has a right to have. The anticipation had coiled in his belly, hot and low, and by the time Harry had finally, innocently, what-do-we-have-here opened a door to reveal a room with an actual _bed_ Eggsy had wasted no time in getting naked and on those sheets.

“The bridal suite,” Harry says unnecessarily. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s missing a little something,” Eggsy says, wiggling around so as to put himself on proper display. “This bed has a noticeable lack of Harry.”

“But how would I fit,” Harry leers, “next to that magnificent arse?”

“I think there’s a spot inside of it that might fit you very well.”

That about ends the banter for the next little while; not that Eggsy is in any way complaining, of course. Not when he’s getting the magnificent plowing he’s been working on richly deserving for the last several hours. Then he gets to curl up with Harry, who is, against all odds, an inveterate cuddler, and watch the white lacy storybook curtains – they’ve even got some kind of embroidered flower on them – flutter gently in the breeze from the open window.

Hmm. Does Harry have gardeners? This kind of landscaping, he must, right? How many of them had just heard Eggsy cursing a blue streak as Harry worked every inch of that footlong dick deep into his guts? Not that Eggsy’s embarrassed, mind, but he _is_ a professional, and as Heath Ledger’s Joker had famously said, if you’re good at something, you should never do it for free…

Then Harry rolls him over for round four, and Eggsy forgets to worry about the hypothetical gardeners for a while.

* * *

Despite their afternoon athleticism, Eggsy and Harry manage to shower (round five), resist the urge to desecrate the jacuzzi tub (“tonight, darling,” Harry murmurs, sultry), and dress afresh in time to enjoy a cozy little dinner en-suite. “So,” Eggsy says, toying with the tail end of his steak, wishing he had room for another bite but mostly resigned to leaving it unfinished. “When do I lose you to the business of the ultra-toff?”

“Well, there are two answers to that question,” Harry says. “The first is ‘never, because I not-so-secretly abhor record-keeping and review’ – ”

Eggsy snorts. “The whole studio knows that, mate, Merlin shouts about it every quarter.” He dons a truly atrocious Scottish accent and mimics: _“I’m yer production assistant, not yer accountant! Hire an actual records manager, ye bloody cheap arse – ”_

“He actually threw the accounts receivables folder at me last quarter,” Harry reminisces. “Ruined half a day’s work on _Star Cock Beyond_ when the rushes showed Gazelle had one of the receipts stuck to her bum.”

“Is _that_ what you were yelling at Hesketh about?” Charlie Hesketh is Eggsy’s least favorite PA at Kingsman. Charlie had gotten the job because he’s the nephew of the unlamented Chester King, and everyone from the best boy on up had figured him for a nepotism hire, pure and simple. But while Eggsy might personally dislike the git, Charlie’s been good enough to _keep_ said job, both through the general reshuffle when Harry had taken control of Kingsman and over the four years since. He’s got talent, in spite of his personality, and Harry cares about results. Missing something as glaring as a half-sheet of paper with _PAID_ stamped on it in red letters seems a little out of character.

“Yes, because it was perfectly visible on b-roll, so only a complete idiot could have missed it. Unless the preview feed for the b-roll wasn’t visible during filming, due to an equipment issue with that particular that the tech manager had filed a ticket for, timestamped the night before.” Harry sighs mournfully. “I had to apologize. It was most galling.”

“The real mystery is how Gazelle managed to go an entire shoot without noticing.” Sure, there’s a certain amount of bodily detachment that goes along with the job – Roxy has been known to joke that porn stars are the best Buddhists no one knows about – but had she never sat down during a break in filming?

“It was the bondage shoot.”

“Ah.” Then no, probably not. Getting in and out of those x-frames is a bitch and a half; it’s easier just to hang there, and have someone hold up a water bottle with a straw to sip from. “But back to my original question – since we both know that you’re one of the most diligent blokes ever to walk the Earth – ” Harry mugs, and Eggsy grins. “What’s the second answer to my question?”

Harry sighs. “The second answer is ‘tomorrow’. But I shall take frequent breaks, and you must promise to be at my absolute disposal.”

“Course, ‘s why I came,” Eggsy says easily.

“Five times, in fact.”

“I’m _almost_ too sore to wear the little pink plug tomorrow.”

“Why, Eggsy,” Harry says in pleased surprise. “Did you bring the little pink plug?”

“Maybe.” Eggsy flashes him his cheekiest grin.

“And did you,” Harry goes on, throwing his napkin on the table and rising, “truly think that I would let you wait until _tomorrow_ to wear it?”

Eggsy leans back in his chair, feeling warm and boneless and so very, very safe. “…no.”

* * *

The bed is empty when Eggsy awakens. He stretches, unfazed. Harry is an early riser by nature. Eggsy is still in the night owl phase of the porn star lifecycle, and used to waking up alone. He’s also used to the handwritten note on Harry’s pillow, which, this morning, reads:

> _Good morning, darling. I do hope you’re still well and properly sore from last night._

Eggsy grins. He’s lying on his side for that exact reason, in fact.

> _Wear the plug all day, if you can. Don’t forget to reapply lube regularly. I shall be most put out if you don’t care for yourself while I’m not around to do it. I look forward to checking in on your progress in the early afternoon. Don’t wait on me for luncheon; I anticipate we’ll both have other things on our plates._

That sends a pleasurable shiver down Eggsy’s spine. He wiggles a bit, lets the soreness in his arse extend the feeling somewhat, send it shooting down to his ankles.

> _I forgot to mention last night – there’s a golf cart in the garage if you want to explore the grounds. It ought to be charged up. Otherwise, I think there’s some antique furniture about. If that interests you._
> 
> _Until soon,_
> 
> _Harry_

Antique furniture, is it? So Harry _has_ noticed Eggsy’s shameful obsession with _Antiques Roadshow_. The bastard. Eggsy had thought he’d had that well hidden, watching on his phone on break between shoots. And what does ‘about’ mean? Upstairs? Downstairs? In his lady’s chamber? Well, not the latter, at least. Eggsy is pretty sure this suite _is_ what used to be the lady’s chamber, and everything here, despite its careful veneering, is thoroughly modern in construction.

Drat it, now he’s curious. But he’s also been filming nonstop for the last week, and he needs sunshine more than the most wilting plant. Over breakfast (room service, or at least the equivalent thereof) Eggsy dithers. It’s not until he’s sipping the last of his tea and swiping idly at his phone that he thinks to check the weather. The forecast settles matters: it’s clear and gorgeous out now, but set to storm in the afternoon. Decision made, Eggsy sets down the teacup and makes for the garage.

An hour later, he’s ruing all of his life choices. The grounds _are_ lovely, and the day _is_ lovely, and everything is perfectly lovely, except that he’s riding a golf cart over grass with a plug up his arse. And he’d left the spare lube back in the room. Not that he’d want to stop to lube up in the middle of Harry’s picturesque wedding sprawl. He’s already spotted two or three groups wandering the grounds, all safely in the company of one of the red-blazer-wearing salesfolk that Harry had mentioned the day before. Prospective customers. Probably seeing a famous porn star re-lubing his anal plug would somewhat tarnish the venue’s rustic charm.

Eggsy tries to ignore the increasing chafing, but half an hour or so later he gives up. His body’s his livelihood, and Kingsman’s medicos have gimlet eyes when checking a performer out before a shoot. At least they do under Harry. Eggsy could probably have got away with it under Chester, but it hardly bears thinking about. He supposes, as he points the golf cart towards the manor, that it’s really all a matter of perspective. Harry has buckets of money; Eggsy could moon every wedding guest from now till the age of ninety, and never make another Statesman film to boot, and none of that would knock Harold Reginald Hart the Third out of the upper classes. But _Harry_ would be disappointed. Harry had written just that in the note on his pillow this morning. Harry is very fond of Eggsy’s body for reasons that have nothing to do with money, and Eggsy doesn’t want – has never wanted – to let him down.

So, back to the house. Or at least that’s the plan. Eggsy’s trundling along, within sight of the manor now, when he notices that the golf cart isn’t moving as quickly as it had before. It had never been exactly speedy, making perhaps five kilometers an hour at absolute top, but this was well shy even of that. In fact, its motor had started to acquire a slight… putter.

Then it acquires a slight not-going-anywhere-anymore. Momentum carries Eggsy past the flower gardens, and he comes to a gentle halt at the opening of the main walk. There’s a red light blinking on the dashboard that makes Eggsy groan. The battery’s out of charge.

“Well damn,” Eggsy mutters to himself. Now he has to _walk_.

Walking is inconvenient for a number of reasons. The day, so pleasant when experienced beneath a canopy with a five-kilometer-an-hour wind, is considerably hotter when experienced afoot whilst in direct sun. The motion of walking, while more gentle than the effect of jostling along on his poor arse, is still not frictionless, thanks to his lack of lube. But worst of all is the people.

The first group touring the ground passes Eggsy by with a nod and a friendly wave. The second pauses so their tour leader can ask him, in concern, if he’s gotten separated from the rest of his party. She accepts Eggsy’s assurances that he works with Harry, but the next tour leader, a great huge bloke who Eggsy would dearly love to cast in _Bear on Twink XIV_ , wants to see proof, which Eggsy doesn’t have. Clearly worried that Eggsy is a wedding gatecrasher and he’ll lose his job if he lets Eggsy out of his sight, he insists that Eggsy accompany his group back to the house. Eggsy gives up protesting: after all, the house is where he wants to go.

The tour guide (Bob) is the strong and silent type, but the couple he’s escorting make up for it in chattiness. Eggsy can’t help but be fascinated: they’re exactly like every episode of crappy reality TV Tequila had ever tricked him into watching. Cheryl is petite, peroxide blond, and prone to giggling; her groom-to-be, Tom, is middle-height, and makes sure Eggsy knows he plays football on the weekends with his mates, glancing enviously at Eggsy’s musculature as he says it. But both of them are gushing over what a wonderful venue it is, simply gorgeous, couldn’t ask for anything better, and Eggsy doesn’t really have to say much. He nods and smiles and agrees with Cheryl that the flowers are marvelous and with Tom that the catering is top-notch.

At last they make it to the main house. Entering through the veranda’s propped-open double doors, from heat and sun into coolness and comparative dimness, Eggsy heaves a sigh of relief. The foyer is open and spacious, stretching up the full three stories, with curving stairs on either side that are straight out of a fairy tale. Underneath the west stairs are Eggsy’s salvation: a reception-slash-information desk, staffed by someone who will hopefully know who Eggsy is. Eggsy jerks a thumb and says to Bob, “Right, you should be able to check my credentials here.” He takes a step towards the desk. And then several things happen at once.

First, a new group of wedding tourists enters the open foyer, laughing and giggling.

Second, Harry appears partway down the east stairs, flanked by yet another red-blazer-wearing employee, this one carrying an iPad and wearing a perpetually harassed look. Harry sees Eggsy. And – there’s no other word for it – Harry lights up. It’s somehow done in the most posh, understated way imaginable, and the woman in the red blazer standing next to Harry seems not to even notice, continuing to squint at her iPad and tap away as if the sun hasn’t just risen over her left shoulder. The newly-arrived wedding tourists don’t even look up. Cheryl and Tom actually turn away to coo over the picture windows. But Eggsy can’t take his eyes off Harry. Harry, who a moment ago had been tense, focused, shoulders taut, tiny wrinkles forming around the corners of his eyes. Who at the mere sight of Eggsy – whom he had seen mere hours before – has relaxed so completely that Eggsy is amazed that Harry hasn’t tumbled straight down the stairs. There’s a faint smile dancing around the corners of Harry’s expressive (and talented) lips, and a softness in his eyes that makes them look like liquid chocolate.

_Holy shit,_ Eggsy thinks in shock. _Harry’s in love with me, too_.

That’s the second thing that happens. It’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened in Eggsy’s life.

The third thing happens immediately thereafter.

“Eggsy? Hey, Ginger Ale, look, it’s Eggsy!”

Eggsy’s head snaps around in shock.

There, among the group of wedding tourists who had just entered, are Ginger Ale and Tequila.

“Oh, fuck my life,” Eggsy says weakly.

“It’s so good to see you!” Tequila enthuses. He’s separated from Eggsy by the group of people he’s with, but he immediately starts trying to move through them. Ginger Ale follows, more slowly.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Eggsy says, which is probably rude, but so sue him, he’s utterly and completely wrong-footed. “I thought you were married already!”

“Oh, this isn’t for us!” Tequila finally makes his way through the crowd, and he comes to a rest uncomfortably close into Eggsy’s personal space. “It’s Matt and Janice.” He gestures to two of the gaggle he’d entered with, who give Eggsy cheery smiles and waves. “Janice is Ginger Ale’s cousin, you see – ” the resemblance is obvious once Eggsy looks, which does nothing to endear them to him – “And since we’d gotten married so recently, they thought we’d have good advice, so they asked us to come along! Not sure how much help we’ll be, though,” Tequila goes on with a nudge-nudge wink-wink kind of smile. “Since we kept it fairly simple. But Janice wants all the big poof, the to-do, you know – she’s really a bridezilla, almost.”

Eggsy boggles. Even if true, that’s not exactly a nice thing to say about someone, especially to their face. And Tequila is just rattling it off to Eggsy of all people, as if they’re close anymore, as if they’re _friends_ , as if Tequila hadn’t dumped him by _dear John letter_ two _years_ ago and without never so much as a word since –

“It’s true,” Janice giggles, before Eggsy can react to the uncomfortable over-sharing Tequila is on with anything other than a goggle-eyed stare. “And this place, ooh, it’s dreamy! Supposedly – ” her voice sinks to a conspiratorial whisper that can doubtless be heard in the attic – “it’s owned by an actual _noble_ , isn’t that dreamy?”

“Probably not true though,” her fiancé Matt says, the first thing he’s said yet, and said in such a long-suffering tone that Eggsy instantly gives their relationship three years till divorce.

“Actually it is true,” Harry’s voice cuts in, and every eye swings to him. He’s descending the last few steps of the eastern staircase and is coming towards them. “It’s part of the estate of the Earl of Matlock.”

“Oooh,” Janice says, sounding impressed. “The Earl of Matlock, now! You hear that, Matt?” She smacks her fiancé on the shoulder in her triumph. “We’ve just _got_ to book this place!”

“Well, that may be a slight problem,” Harry says. “This venue is very exclusive.”

Eggsy stares at Harry, desperately wishing he knew what the hell was going on, because in Eggsy’s book this is an absolute nightmare. Of all the ways he’d imagined seeing Tequila and Ginger Ale again… well, in those imaginings, there’d always been a way to give them a piece of his mind. That’s what had been missing from their breakup. No, put it the way it is: that had been missing from when they’d _dumped_ _Eggsy_. Eggsy’s been dumped before, but never without a proper row. A chance to vent his feelings. Yes, Eggsy had chosen Harry, wouldn’t go back to that old life where he’d filled the same role in Ginger Ale and Tequila’s life that a new puppy would do. But he’d only found out they’d viewed him in that light when it had been too late to say anything about it.

So this?

This is his chance.

Eggsy opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

“Ooh, exclusive?” Janice is saying, excitement clear, while Eggsy is still trying and failing to speak.

“Exclusive how?” Matt asks, making his second contribution to the conversation.

_This is your chance,_ Eggsy tells himself. _Have it out. Yell. Shout. They’re right here! Go on, let them have it!_

“This young lady,” Harry says, still addressing Janice but gesturing to Ginger Ale, “is your cousin, I collect?”

“Oh yes,” Janice says, seemingly oblivious to the frozen byplay. Ginger Ale, who hasn’t actually said a word yet, is wearing an expression of slowly dawning horror. Janice seems about to go on, but Harry preempts her by speaking first, still in the politest tone possible.

“And she is in your wedding party, I suppose?”

“My maid of honor,” Janice smiles.

“And her husband?” Harry nods towards Tequila.

“I’m groomsman,” Tequila says. “Hey, Eggsy, want to come to the wedding?”

Once again Eggsy opens his mouth. Once again thinks: _this is my chance._

And he –

He –

He doesn’t _want_ it. Not anymore.

Eggsy isn’t here for them. He’s here for Harry. They’re intruders. He doesn’t want to yell at them; he doesn’t want to talk to them. He doesn’t even want to breathe the same air as them. All he wants is for them to just _go away_.

“I see.” Harry is nodding to himself. “Well, one can’t help one’s relatives, of course. Nor can one prevent them from making terrible life choices. But one can control one’s _own_ choices, and your choice of wedding party, I must say, demonstrates a regrettable lack of judgement. This venue declines to accept your booking. And _they_ – ” For the first time Harry looks at Ginger Ale and Tequila, and the scorn in his voice is all the more cutting from the way it comes from a clear blue sky, from the change from the previously dulcet and polished tones of his voice – “are unwelcome on these premises. Leave at once, you two, or I shall have the law on you.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence. Then, inevitably, a moment of cacophony, as Janice, Tequila, the onlookers, and the other members of Janice and Matt’s party all burst into shocked speech. But Matt’s voice cuts louder than anyone else’s, and he actually takes a step towards Harry, fists clenching and eyes widening in outrage.

“You can’t just do that,” he sputters. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Harry looks at him in faint surprise. “Why, I’m the Earl of Matlock, of course,” he says. And then he turns away, utterly dismissing Matt, and Janice, and Tequila and Ginger Ale, and all. Harry looks at Eggsy in the corner as if he’s the only other person in the room, and smiles just for him. “Eggsy, darling, shall we have lunch? I’m famished.”

* * *

Eggsy is upstairs, in the suite they’re sharing, and seated at the small table someone has spread a light luncheon on before he reawakens to (a) his senses and (b) the fact that he is _still_ wearing a (now thoroughly un-lubricated) little pink butt plug. He jumps to his feet again, swearing, and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

Mere moments later, while Eggsy still has his pants down and is engaging in porn star yoga, there comes a gentle rapping on the bathroom door. “Eggsy?” Harry’s voice calls. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Eggsy shouts back. “I just got bumped all over the lawn by a golf cart, had to walk back with a group of chattery cathys, was accosted by my past lovers, and now I can’t get this fucking butt plug out!”

This is greeted by a moment of silence, and then the door opens to reveal Harry, wearing a bemused expression and holding – saints be praised – the lube bottle. “Bend over, darling,” Harry says.

Eggsy does, gratefully draping himself across the jacuzzi – so much for defiling it later – and spreading wide. There’s the sound of the bottle being popped open and lube squishing wetly as it’s squeezed out, then the cool relief of Harry’s fingers probing around Eggsy’s sore and irritated opening.

But when Harry speaks, he neither scolds Eggsy for letting himself get in such a state nor suggests any of the several filthy possibilities opened up by Eggsy’s predicament. What he says, in a voice oddly timid, is, “Do I owe you an apology?”

“For what?” Eggsy is concentrating on his breathing, keeping his arse as relaxed as possible to make Harry’s job easier. At least until a dreadful possibility occurs to him and he tenses right up. “Did you know they was coming? Ginger Ale and Tequila?”

“Of course not!” Harry sounds proper horrified, and Eggsy relaxes straight away.

“Should’ve known,” Eggsy says, half apology himself. The thought had been an impulsive one, but on further scrutiny it doesn’t hold up. Ginger Ale and Tequila weren’t the ones getting married, nor the parents of the couple or nothing. There’s no reason to think they’d’ve been the ones to book a tour for this venue, which is about the only way Harry could even know who’d be coming to the grounds today. And that’s assuming Harry had even bothered himself to look at the appointment list: which, given his distaste for paperwork, why would he? “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

“If I _had_ known, I would have simply canceled their appointment.” Harry clears his throat awkwardly. “Though in the spirit of total honesty, I must admit that I did derive some… personal satisfaction… from dealing them a set-down, however small.”

“I could tell.” There’s a further moment of awkward silence, during which Harry finally gets Eggsy lubed and stretched enough to slide the plug out without further damage. Eggsy blows out a sigh of relief and straightens up. Then he catches sight of Harry’s face. “What?”

“I can’t tell how it made you feel. Seeing them again. My actions. I’d very much like to know, if you would be so good as to share.”

“Oh.” Eggsy sits on the edge of the jacuzzi tub, hisses, and stands back up again. “I… dunno. I’ve imagined it for a while, what I’d do if I saw them again – always figured there would be a lot more shouting, honestly – but when it actually happened, it wasn’t like that at all. It just felt weird. Like they were trying to act a scene with me, but the director had already yelled ‘cut’. Like, what are you all still doing here? Don’t you know it’s over? Shouldn’t you have gone home?”

“Ah.” Harry nods. “I see, yes.”

“As for what you did…” Eggsy shrugs. “Yeah, I got a kick out of it for a second there. But now I’m more hoping they don’t take it as a reason to try to get back in touch. You know?”

“They’re your past,” Harry murmurs. He comes closer, tipping Eggsy’s chin up like he’s going to kiss Eggsy.

“Is this the part where you say you’re my future?” Eggsy tries to play it off with a chuckle.

Harry isn’t laughing. “That’s up to you.”

Now Eggsy’s heart is starting to pound. “What are you saying?”

“I had meant to make this more romantic,” Harry confesses. “But then again, it’s not every day you get to rescue your intended from the dragons of their complicated emotional past, so I’m going to take the moment for what it’s worth. Eggsy, darling, will you marry me?”

Eggsy looks at Harry. Looks down at what Harry is holding up. “Did you just – did you just propose to me _with a pink butt plug?”_ He reassesses. “With _my_ little pink butt plug?!”

Harry looks down at his own hands, too, and visibly does a double take. “One moment, please.” He steps over to the sink and meticulously sanitizes both the plug and his own hands. Then he draws a box out of his pocket. With one foot, he tugs a bath rug over so that when he gets down on one knee, he’s got the rug to cushion him. “Aging joints,” he says in an aside. Then he opens the box with a flourish. “Eggsy, darling, will you – ”

“Yes!” Eggsy all but shrieks in his haste to make sure Harry doesn’t take it back. Then he says again, in a more reasonable tone, “Yes, of course, you git, you’ve never even said you _loved_ me, I was afraid…” He laughs, getting down on the floor next to Harry so that Harry doesn’t have to get up right away. “Of course. But I ain’t gonna be no countess.”

“I disagree,” Harry says primly, extracting the plain titanium ring from the box and sliding it onto Eggsy’s finger. There’s a look in his eye that Eggsy recognizes – the same look as when he’d said, in reference to male pregnancy, _A little market research never hurt anyone._ “I thoroughly adore you, and I think you are going to make an _excellent_ countess.”

* * *

“Cut!”

Eggsy blinks in surprise, then blinks again as Harry shifts from his position atop him and the bright overheads of the set lights blare into his eyes. “What the fuck, Hesketh?”

Charlie Hesketh points off-camera. “Audio issue,” he says. “I started only getting moans on the left.” Like every PA ever, he seems to possess the supernatural ability to hear what’s coming out of his high-end headphones even though he’s wearing them around his neck.

Harry twists with enviable flexibility to peer off to the maligned right side of the set. Eggsy cranes his neck to do the same. The boom mic on that side does seem to be a _little_ high; the operator, red-faced, is winching it down as they watch. But from Eggsy’s admittedly limited point of view, it doesn’t look like it should have been bad enough to stop the shoot. Uneven audio is a fact of live recording. That’s what post-production is for.

Still, Hesketh’s the one with the headphones and the video replay. It’s literally his job to catch stuff like this. Eggsy still prefers to work with Roxy, and as one of the stars of the studio, he usually gets his wish. But Roxy’s on vacation, celebrating the successful wrap of – and astronomical pre-sales of – _The Other Human Dong_. And Eggsy _isn’t_ on vacation, and production on _Boy with an Earl’s Earring_ must go on. So here’s Charlie. Stopping the climactic take – no pun intended – for the fifth time today.

“Well, Mr. Hesketh, the studio certainly benefits from your expertise,” Harry says at last, after the offending mic has been lowered and the silence has stretched out. “I don’t think my ear would have been up to noticing the issue.”

Charlie bites his lip. “I’ve been told I have good hearing, sir,” he says tightly.

“Well then, are we ready to roll?”

Charlie glances around, getting various affirmations from around the set, then rechecks the shooting script. “Shall we resume from ‘ _oh, my Lord, impale me’_?”

“Yes, excellent.” Harry resettles his weight on Eggsy and gives Eggsy a private grin. Eggsy grins back, instantly randy and ready to go. Working with Harry has left Eggsy’s fluffer with nothing to do, most days. Half of that’s Harry Hard-On, TM; his magnificent body, his incredible dong, his skill at fucking, all of which combine to make Eggsy’s arsehole clench and his balls tighten in anticipation. But there’s more than that. There’s also the man behind the porn name. And that man may sometimes be Harold Reginald Hart III, Earl of Matlock, total toff, Eton education, perfect RP, and secondary estate he rents out for weddings. But he’s also just Harry. Who kisses Eggsy like he’s precious. Who proposes to him with a little pink buttplug. Who, yes, green-lights a porn video that manages to make Eggsy both a countess _and_ pregnant, because apparently that is an enormous fantasy among his mainly-female fan base. Whom Eggsy loves regardless, just the way he is.

Their wedding had been a piece of paper at the registry office, and their lives revolve around the camera, but their marriage is their own. To have, and to hold, and to shape as they wish.

“Action!” Charlie shouts.


End file.
